The king within the man
Does not know the breeze
Encircling the sun like a moth.
He eats the sun like a fire-eater
Sucking in its light
Quenched like a hot iron in water.
Darkness will come
When the water has evaporated
The sun will tire and sleep
The man within the king
Stands proudly in the robes of state
His words are Latin phrases
The Royal fleet is under his left arm
With trade goods and colonies
The army is beneath his right arm
With the heads of his enemies
Yet he hangs, he hangs like a wounded Christ
Upon a diamond-encrusted gold crucifix
